


St. Valentine's Day Massacre

by thousandmonkeys



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Gangsters, SnK 20's AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandmonkeys/pseuds/thousandmonkeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean’s driven to join the Prohibition Bureau. It's not like there was any other choice, was there?  SnK 20's AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Valentine's Day Massacre

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "During the late 1920’s there was the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre, called the single bloodiest incident in a decade-long turf war between rival Chicago mobsters. Maybe the 104th as Bug’s Moran’s gangsters, of whom 6 members were shot down by Al Capone’s gang? *sweats sorry if this is complicated \\(’ u ‘);/*"
> 
> Inspired by lapetrev's SnK 20's AU, which can be found: http://la-petite-revereuse.tumblr.com/tagged/snk 20's au

Jean leaned against the hideous green wallpaper of the small room, glaring at the ornate clock hanging directly opposite him, the carvings in the mahogany wood almost painful to look at.

How is it, he wondered, so bored that ay kind of distraction would do, that all these men have such terrible taste?

They’d been here an hour now, and even Kirschstein Sr., normally unflappable and collected, was looking rather irritable, an idle spoon stirring his drink around and around, the clinking of the ice sporadic and grating.

One of the rough men coughed; in the stifling heat, any noise was rather unwelcome, and the offender looked rather uncomfortable as all the eyes in the room turned to glare at him.

Uncomfortable was really the keyword here, mused Jean, taking in the room once again. Most of the rough-faced men stood stiffly against the walls, guns (courtesy of Kirschstein Holdings, supplied his well rehearsed mind, noting the shining silver insignia on the butt) leaned in silent waiting against the wall. One of them had a sharp scar on his cheek, giving his already rat-like face a desperate air.

Jean watched in disgust as the man dug at his ear with one long, filthy fingernail, and shook his head in askance at his father’s suited back; why did they need to deal with gangsters? The factories were doing well, even with the shipments of guns he had ordered sent to the Prohibition Bureau, so surely they didn’t need to deal with such lowlifes?

The hand of the clock moved on, minute hand reaching half past on its gaudy face, the roman numeral ostentatious in their contrast.

Then it came; there was a sputtering in the driveway as a car pulled up, and a car door slammed. Jean watched as his father moved to look through the blinds, the light filtering in, and his eyes widened in shock as Kirschstein Sr. turned around with a shocked expression and a mouthed “police”.

Gravel crunched under booted feet and the room went into chaos, the men scurrying to hide their guns, and Jean ducking into the sink cabinet, as so often rehearsed, all while cursing silently, his heart beating like a rabbit’s.

The stale scent of mold covering his skin like a repulsive blanket. His elbow bumped against a hardwood surface and Jean winced at the creak as the wood protested under the sudden impact.

The door flew open with a crash as a quartet of officers came in, and Jean breathed in with apprehension. Strange, their uniform was oddly stiff, as if they had been prepared carefully for a play. And weren’t their steps too clipped? He’d seen the way the staff of the Bureau moved, and it was much more graceful than this.

Eyebrows raised in askance, Jean watched as one of the police gestured lazily with a handgun, tilting his head with a sharp nod at the wall. Arms in the air, Jean growled as his father was made to stand with the common criminals, his suit stark against the shabby coats and green wallpaper.

His father struggled to move as the men pinned his arms down, a knee in the small of his back, shouting in justified fury-what evidence did they have, after all? Didn’t they know who he was? He was silenced as one of the men punched him in the face, and his father, the proud strong man, stood there trembling, face slowly reddening from the rough handling.

One of the associates caught his eye, and a moment of silent communication seemed to pass between them. Kirststein Sr. nodded and Jean looked on in outrage as his father, who had so often impressed upon him the virtues of honesty, turned to face the man, drawing his wallet from the inner pocket of his coat.

“How much do you want, gentlemen? Or can we interest you in some of the finest brandy in this side of America instead?” His father’s strong arms were spread wide and he looked every inch the gracious host, a wide, forced smile on his face.

Jean could do no more than watch in horror as one of the officers cocked his gun, aiming it levelly at his father’s temple, a smirk coming across the mangy man’s features instead. His father backed away, arms raised in surrender and slowly retreating, until he hit the wall with an audible thump.

He heard the sound of a gun being cocked, a sound once associated with the firing range in the country, or the hum of machines in the polished silver factories.

The shot that came seemed to take forever, and the shoddy walls of the garage shook with a shot. Jean’s muffled yell was drowned out by the deafening shot, and he bit down on his tongue, willing himself to be silent, be still, don’t let them find me, don’t ever let them find me.

He’d covered his eyes, but not in time to see the blood splattering on the floor, and no matter how hard he tried, the thump of the body hitting hard wood echoed in his mind, no more than a sack of meat.

There was no fear of the men noticing of course; they were laughing like hyenas, the hoarse crow-cawing of their mocking laughter ringing in his ears. It seemed fitting in a way, in this gruesome painting of blood, gore and brains strewn about, set to the jingle of a death bird.

He risked a peek at the scenes, and doubled over even more, a low moan emitting from his mouth, blending into the keening groan of one of the men’s as he clutched a stomach would, trying and failing to hold the insides where they were, thank you very much.

The once light floor was now a perfect red, marred by the occasional glob of tissue as it lay on the floor, bright light of the day filtering in. The assassin stomped a booted foot, grinning as it came down with a squelch, and they erupted into laughter once more.

Oh god, some of that was his father’s.

Eventually they stopped laughing, but Jean couldn’t for the life of him tell when was that. There was a crash as the uniformed man punched the wall, the shoddy walls of the garage shaking as he roared in anger.

Hard heels clipped the floor as they turned around, their step much more relaxed than before, and he grimaced as the one that stomped down took a lacy napkin and daintily dabbed at the spot, the cloth coming away grey with flesh.

As the men left, he could hear snatches of conversation, and even though he’d buried his face into his arms long before: they were insidious, those words, slithering into his ears like so many lies, the poison tongue of betrayal awakened and rising up.

“ _…this guy…not mob…shit, wrong guy…better get out of here and hightail it before the boss finds out…”_

It took a long time, even after the door had slammed shut for Jean to come back to himself. The tears had long dried, turning the cloth crusty with salt, and he woke up surrounded by mold. Somebody had opened the cabinet, and the jaded blue eyes of Armin stared at him, a thin, feminine hand held out to help him up.

He took it, yes, but it was more of a reflex than anything, soon falling into the reassuring hold of Marco. Although his mind registered that the bodies had been moved, the blood on the floor brought it all back and he sank down, clawing at the spot where his father had been only a few minutes earlier.

Now there was a reassuring arm on his back, and a rag offered for him to dry his tears, but people were moving once again, the Bureau spurred into action but the somewhat fulfilled mission.

Armin was called over by Hanji to help with something, and soon only Marco was left, the pressure against his back a small reassurance, and Jean leaned into the offered support.

“Jean.” That was Eren, green eyes as hard as agates, the fixed determination now a siren call to his hurt soul. He saw a kindred spirit there, and for the first time, Jean empathized with the boy he had once so despised. “Do you want revenge?”

The answer that came took a long time in coming, half choked and held back in a by the fear of a disapproving father. But then, _he_ was gone, wasn’t he? Gone, dead, nothing more than a sack of flesh, bleeding out into the sewers, the blood running into the floorboards, away from him.

The brown eyes of the last Kirschstein looked up, and they were dry.

“Yeah. Yes I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading~
> 
> The SnK 20's Verse is a huge thing that mainly focuses on the adults of the SnK world, but being the rather derpy writer that I am, I can only write the kids. Hence Jean and Marco and Shiganshina Trio.
> 
> As always, more fic can be found at serascribbles.tumblr.com Thank you for reading~!


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